


(y)our song

by queenofthelot



Category: IT (1990), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Teachers, I poured so much of my real life work experience into this AU, M/M, Slow Dancing, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak, Soft Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Soft Richie Tozier, Teacher AU, Title from an Elton John Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23523415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthelot/pseuds/queenofthelot
Summary: Eddie goes to Richie's after Friday teacher happy hour. Richie finds out Eddie has never had a slow dance. Elton John's "Your Song" is involved (along with three glasses of wine and a dead Apple Watch).
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Kudos: 48





	(y)our song

**Author's Note:**

> This is from an AU I worked on with someone. They published what they wrote so I'm publishing what I wrote. 
> 
> Richie and Eddie are rivals/enemies at the beginning of this AU. It's a long story. Maybe I'll publish that one another time. 
> 
> Eddie teaches English Lit and Drama. Richie teaches music. There was a glee club involved somewhere down the line.

Eddie didn’t know what time it was. He had lost track of time a glass and a half of red wine ago when his Apple Watch had died and his phone had died about an hour before that. But he had been too busy talking to (and watching) Richie to ask about an extra charger.

He knew it was late. It felt late in his back and his muscles and his stomach and, most importantly, his brain. It was past his bedtime, he knew, even for a weekend evening. He had never been much of a night owl, and his job only dissuaded him from it. Early to bed, early to rise, unless he had Richie Tozier on his mind. Richie only complicated things, it seemed. 

Like right now for example. And for the months before this. Richie was like a puzzle that Eddie couldn’t solve, a sentence he couldn’t diagram. There was the subject and the predicate and the article and prepositional phrases, but there was something else there too that didn’t make sense. 

The three glasses of wine weren’t making it any easier to understand. To understand how someone could be so- so insufferable and intelligent at the same time. How someone could start his job fresh and be a favorite within a matter of weeks. Eddie knew he should give himself a break, it was the weekend after all and setting healthy boundaries with work and all of that. 

But he would be lying if he said he had come to Richie’s apartment expecting to leave without any new information, any new insight. 

So far he had learned that Richie also liked red wine like him and that he had an extensive vinyl collection from his days as a DJ. He learned that Richie had a thing for soft lighting (“Easier on my eyes, the fluorescents suck”, Richie had stated). Richie didn’t have an eye for interior design, it was clear he didn’t worship at the feet of the Gaines’ or the gods of HGTV. And yet, everything came together in a tasteful and quirky way that could only be described as “Tozier”. It pissed Eddie off even more. 

And now he was being forced to listen to Richie drone on about hits of the past. Or of the recent present. Eddie had lost track, again. He kept reminding himself he could leave at any time, he could simply get up and walk out the door. But something compelled him to stay. He thought it was the glasses of wine, the tired feeling behind his eyes, but the butterflies in his stomach said otherwise. 

He had never seen Richie teach, but he imagined this is as close as he would get. A glimmer in his eyes, a voice that rolls over words quickly in excitement, but that slows for emphasis. Lots of hand gestures, many of them, an extension of his emotions and facial expressions. Even if he had closed his eyes (okay, maybe he had a couple of times already), Eddie could tell you how Richie felt about Madonna versus how he felt about Lady Gaga. Eddie was partial to Madonna, his music taste was stuck pre-2003, as Richie was quick to point out to him as they talked and talked and talked. 

Eddie realized this was neutral ground. Music was as neutral as they had gotten. This wasn’t discussing assessment implementation or grading techniques or whether rewards are actually a beneficial behavior management technique. This wasn’t about defending the counselors who had (terribly) put the classes together a day before school started (as Eddie had done at happy hour earlier in the day). Neutral, safe; Eddie and Richie had their white flags up and waving rapidly in front of each other’s faces. 

He felt himself drifting into thought again, observing Richie like he wished he could during school hours. The fluid movement of wrists, fabric stretching over skin and muscle, the pink blush of blood vessels under cheeks, getting red like wine. Eddie stopped himself; something in Richie’s voice had changed.

“Come on, man. You have to like this one. It’s a classic.”

A familiar piano tune played, followed by a man’s voice. Eddie hated to admit that he agreed with Richie, but -

“Of course I know this one! I wasn’t born yesterday!”

Richie laughed to himself, rubbing the palms of his hands on his jeans, almost like he was trying to keep himself seated criss-cross on the floor near the speaker system in his living room. “I really do question that sometimes, Kaspbrak,”

Eddie felt too far away on the couch. Why was he so far away? Distance was good. Distance was- was safe. “Well, you shouldn’t. I know things.” Eddie wanted to slap himself across the face. He sounded like an absolute idiot. How did intelligent conversation sound, again?

Richie rolled his eyes, leaning back and resting his weight on his hands, “I’m sure you do, Eddie, I’m sure you do. Like the difference between a participle and a preposition.”

“It’s my job!”

“It’s boring!”

It was Eddie’s turn to roll his eyes. “Maybe you should respect your elders. Your work elders, I mean.” 

“Maybe you should just, like, respect other people, dude.”

“Dude? Really?”

“I thought you had been working with kids longer than me.”

“That doesn’t mean I talk like one.”

“Whatever, man.” But Richie smiled at him, and Eddie could feel himself smiling back but simultaneously willing himself not to smile back.

Maybe he was meant to pity Richie Tozier, not take him under his wing or to learn from him. Simply just let him sit in his place and let the shit hit the fan eventually. It would hit, eventually, right? Pity the fool who takes the job lightly and doesn’t commit. 

Richie rolled his head back and closed his eyes, his breathing slowing. Eddie could only watch, one hand clutched so tightly around his glass of room temperature wine that he wondered if it would shatter. 

“This song always makes me think of a good slow dance. You ever had one of those, Eds?”

Eddie loosened his grip on the glass, swirling the liquid; it reminded him of Carrie’s prom and the pig’s blood. “Dirty pillows,” Eddie mumbled to himself, smiling.

“What?”

Eddie replied quickly, not thinking, “Nope. I never went to any of that- that stuff”

“Wait- seriously?” 

Eddie realized he had made a mistake. Richie was sitting up straight, looking at him, an almost concerned look in his eye now. 

“You’ve never- really? Not even like a cousin or something at a wedding?”

“First of all, that’s gross. And second of all, no.”

“Your parents never forced you to go to homecoming with the neighbor’s daughter who ditched you halfway through to dance with her friends?”

“What? Okay, this sounds like a personal thing for you-”

“You’re right! It was! But I got one slow dance out of it!”

“Fuck,” Eddie mumbles, again, to himself. 

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Look- it’s late anyways and I should go home. I have to prep stuff for the week and-”  
Richie stands up so quickly Eddie swears he must have been moving in double time. And his eyes just follow his body, up and up and up. And then there’s Richie Tozier with an outstretched hand, having to strain a bit to reach down low enough to Eddie on the couch. 

“Come on, one dance. One thing to check off the freakishly meticulous bucket list I’m sure you keep under your pillow.” 

Eddie stands, carefully placing the glass on the coffee table. “Really, it’s okay.” He can feel himself blushing, but if it’s embarrassment or the wine he can’t tell. 

“I’ll even restart the song. It’s like halfway over now and it won’t give the same effect. I have the lighting already, I’m slightly sweaty and we’ve had some drinks. We’re like three-quarters of the way to prom night in here,”

Eddie looks at Richie’s clammy hand and then up at Richie, and then back at Richie’s hand, and then at his own hands. 

The butterflies are swirling so intensely they’re now up in his ribcage, batting against the bone. It aches. Eddie physically aches. For Richie Tozier. Impossible, and yet not. 

Eddie puts his hand in Richie’s. “I never want to hear about this. Ever. Never ever outside of this moment.”

Richie takes his other hand to his lips, mock zipping them and locking and throwing away the key, somewhere into the kitchen. 

“Wait, wait, let me restart it!” 

While Richie busies himself with his phone, Eddie looks around the room again, nervous. Nervous for what? He rubs his hands on the sides of his slacks, fidgeting. 

“Okay,” Richie turns, taking a deep breath in. “This is a lot easier than you think,”

Eddie grimaces.

“Look, I know you’re a perfectionist or whatever, but you have to let it go for,” Richie peeks over at his phone, “the next four minutes”. 

Eddie just watches as Richie picks up both of his hands in his own. “We’re going to start simple. See, I’m taller than you and-” Richie delicately places Eddie’s hands on his shoulders, “your hands belong up there. And then my hands-” Richie’s hands gently wrap around Eddie’s waist, one hand on either side. Eddie swallows, hard, trying to keep himself in place. “Go there, because you’re the shorter one.”  
Eddie can only nod, trying to keep a straight face. 

“And this is the part where we start awkwardly swaying side to side,” Richie nods back emphatically. “But you have to let yourself feel the music, or it’s going to be more awkward than it already is.” 

Eddie nods, again, this time his brow furrowed like a student struggling to solve a problem. If that hasn’t been his face ever since Richie Tozier arrived in his life-

“You can like- put your head on me or something. I don’t mind.” Richie adds, for some reason. “It might be more comfortable than keeping your neck straight like that.”

Eddie wants to argue, he wants to argue that he has always tried to keep a good posture for his health and to align his spine. He wants to argue that he isn’t as stiff or stuck up as everyone, including Richie seems to think. But he can’t. He doesn’t want to. 

He feels himself melting into the song, into Richie’s hands which seem to simultaneously relax into place on his hips. 

Eddie doesn’t break eye contact with Richie, and Elton John’s voice continues to sing over them like an ominous blessing of what, Eddie isn’t sure. 

He tries to think of a meaningful resolution, a moment of inspiration, an epiphany that ties this strange event together. He wonders if Richie isn’t something meant to be solved; maybe Eddie is the problem. Maybe they’re supposed to solve each other, together. 

His head feels too heavy now, that one thought too much to consider. It’s wistful and romantic and not something Eddie wants to think about much more. So he lets his head move, his neck fluid, and he sees Richie start to crack a smile. But Eddie doesn’t care about how stupid he looks. He’s tired and here’s Richie and Eddie is just plain fucking confused, so he might as well continue down this road. And he places his head on Richie’s chest, just because Richie said he could. And Richie stiffens, if only for a moment, and then relaxes again. And then on the next eight counts, Richie’s head is somehow resting on top of his. 

Eddie wants to complain. He wants to say that this is stupid and he doesn’t need slow dances. He wants structure and predictability. And Richie Tozier is not predictable and it scares him because he is scared of himself. 

The song is coming to a crescendo, and Eddie squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep the thoughts at bay. But the butterflies are using their wings, and they’re hitting harder and harder. 

He tries to match his breathing to Richie’s. Keyword: tries. It’s hard. Richie is bigger than him, it’s true. They would never truly require the same amount of oxygen. Eddie gives up, but his breathing has slowed. 

And just like that, the song is over. Someone else is singing now,a cover of a Beatles song. Four minutes gone from Eddie’s life. Four minutes shared with someone that for so many months has felt like a complete stranger but now feels, well, like something a little less. 

Eddie wonders if Richie could one day become a lot less than a stranger. 

He lets go. 

Richie lets go.

“See! That- that wasn’t too bad right?” Richie smiles again, even as Eddie takes a couple of steps back towards the couch. 

But something feels different. If they both feel it, they don’t mention it. But Eddie feels it. 

He blames it on the wine. 

“You’re a slow dancer, that’s for sure,” Eddie laughs, bending down to grab his keys and wallet off of the table. 

“It took years of practice. You’re getting it from me at my peak, you know” Richie uses his index finger to move his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Before he can stop himself, he adds, “Maybe you need more practice with me,” Eddie can’t even look at him, he’s too busy shoving his keys and wallet into his back pockets and trying not to blush. 

Richie crosses his arms, relaxed, across his chest and shifts his weight to one side “Maybe so, Kaspbrak, maybe so,” He smirks. 

Eddie smiles, looking up at him again, trying to let all the things he’s put between them go. 

“Same time next week?”

“Sure.”

Richie’s smile grows.

“But I pick the music.”

Richie groans as Eddie sidesteps him, wrapping one hand around the doorknob. “I promise to pick something that was released after 1995.”

“Great, great!” Richie calls after Eddie, grinning, “I hope it’s not any of that soft Mazzy Star shit!”

Eddie motions to him in the air, not looking back as he walks down the hallway. He can feel Richie’s eyes on him, and he doesn’t want his eyes to see him grinning too.


End file.
